Our Games
by ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: Yohji's game isn't so fun anymore. Rated M for themes. Mild shounen ai. Angst.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: In a weird mood this morning, and this is the twenty-minute fic that came out of it.

Warnings: angst, blood

* * *

Our Games

* * *

It had started as a game, a small occupation when it rained for three days in a row and his little black book fell short in the face of dreary weather. It had been fun, the heady rush of danger, the anticipation of being caught, and then the look of confusion Aya would wear around for hours. But there wasn't enough evidence to accuse, and Yohji got high off his immunity.

So he kept sneaking into Aya's room. And he kept moving things.

It was small things at first, shifting Aya's brush to the other side of the dresser, rotating a pillow on the bed, flipping his book over so the front cover showed rather than the back. Then he took on the shoes, hiding Aya's seldom-worn black dress shoes behind the stereo and, later, moving his favorite boots from beside the door. He'd put them under the bed, and it had seriously pissed Aya off.

He never took anything.

But he began to learn a lot, and those small glimpses of Aya were just as addictive. He saw the long, thin knife the redhead kept under his pillow and the slightly scratched X-Japan CDs he hid behind the classical music. He found the cross necklace and heavy silver bangle lying on the dresser that hinted at some kind of fashion sense, something he had never suspected. And the gun; it was lying on top of the dresser, too, but he didn't dare move that. It was loaded.

He couldn't stop, though as he went deeper, the danger of true involvement grew.

At first, he opened the closet just to hide the cell phone, but in a few days he was rifling through it for more entertainment. Then he found the leather pants, a silky blue button down, and a white crop top that he had never seen on a mission. And in the box in the bottom he found the straps and buckles, the vinyl top with silver rings, and the wide, dark collar that he lifted experimentally to his own neck. He forgot to move anything that night.

That probably should have been a line.

He went back, this time to the nightstand. He found the notebook filled with figures, adding up to an insane sum. He found the creased porn magazine that confirmed Aya's sexual preference. He found the pills. Some were pain pills, opiates mostly, the kind that Omi usually doled out on a reluctant basis. Two bottles were pysch meds; both were full and dated over a year ago. He didn't know whether to be relieved or troubled that Aya hadn't taken them. Then there were the sleeping pills, mostly empty: no surprise there.

He should have stopped; it was getting deep.

The next night he went through Aya's underwear, finding it considerably less personal and moving the black boxers the other side of the drawer. He folded them in his own style for added effect, and did the man the courtesy of throwing out two pair past their expiration date.

He was already in the chest of drawers, so it wasn't a big jump. He rifled through the t-shirts, trying to remember how three of them had gotten to be pink. He thought it was probably his fault, but he must have been too drunk that day. Two days later, he make it to the third drawer and found it empty.

Disappointed, he almost turned to the dresser.

Later, he wished he had.

But some call to thoroughness, even in this, drew him to the bottom drawer, and he settled on the floor to pull it open.

There was a burgundy sweater on top, thrown in, the only thing he had seen that was not folded neatly. He drew it out, lifting it to his nose without thinking. It smelled odd, not like Aya. He didn't try to figure out how he knew what Aya smelled like, but set the sweater aside for later consideration. It was obviously not a moveable.

Underneath was a sheet, also shoved in, creased and smeared with too much dried blood. Unwashed. Disgusting. He turned his nose up at it, using two fingers to pull it out. He didn't smell that; he knew what that much blood smelled like, and it was always wafting towards him. He pushed it aside.

Then he looked.

He shouldn't have.

Or maybe he should have earlier.

Some of the items didn't make any sense, like the dried orchid carefully preserved between clear sheets of contact paper or the crinkled page torn from some book. The worn picture was odd, but it matched the file Yohji had read more than once; that was the real Aya, looking young and innocent and not worth what else was in the drawer. The edge of the picture was smeared with blood, and he couldn't look at it for very long; it made him sick.

There was a syringe, used, but with no accompanying evidence. And there was the filthy washcloth, blue and bloody, next to a shot glass that was chipped along the rim. Then there were the blades.

He might have written off one, but he had a utility knife in his own drawer that had never been used. There was nothing so common here, just the blades, thin and sharp. The package lay open, one new razor blade clinging inside. The others were scattered, some bloody, one broken in half. Blood had dripped into the drawer and pooled in the forward corners, dry and gross. He could see it too well, Aya sitting on the floor like he was, drawer pulled too far out into his lap, bare arm—was it the arm?—suspended over it as he—

He was really going to be sick.

He came back with an unpleasant bitter taste in his mouth, and stared down at the scattered things.

This wasn't his.

Carefully, he restored Aya's drawer with rare attention to its original state.

He should have moved it.

But he sat across the dinner table watching. And Aya sat there, poking his food, silent and cold and _lying_.

"What?" he snapped at the continued attention.

"Nothing."

He ought to have moved them.

~tbc?~

Notes: This might be a one-shot, or it could have a few more chapters, I dunno. What do you think?


	2. Chapter 2

Our Games

Chapter Two

* * *

Days slipped into weeks, and he didn't resume the game.

Others things caught his attention, a pretty woman's short skirt, a particularly good movie, a scratch on the passenger door of the Seven. But no matter how many times his attention flitted away, it came back.

He watched. He couldn't stop watching.

But he couldn't move, either.

Sometimes he felt like it wasn't real, that it was some weird fantasy made up in his own head. Because it never showed.

Aya was stern and cold and, if not always calm, regular in his responses. There might have been warning signs, but who could separate them from just being Aya?

So, when the distractions ran out, faded behind bright red intrigue, Yohji watched harder. He put his skills to work, let them play another game: he would pick Aya apart, from a distance, and gather the pieces like a puzzle. He was an excellent watcher, and, as far as he could tell, Aya just thought it was another ploy to annoy him.

Of course, that was one of the most ill-fit pieces. Why did Aya allow it? True, Yohji had left no direct evidence, but in a house of four, it wasn't difficult to narrow down the suspects, especially when two of them were scared shitless at the mere thought of crossing the threshold. No doubt Aya knew. So why did Yohji live? He would like to think that Aya wanted to be found out, that he welcomed some intrusion into the cold circle he had built, but it didn't seem likely.

Aya liked the cold, or he wanted to like it. But it was killing him.

Yohji watched him prune the roses. He saw how Aya pricked his fingers on purpose, never saying a word as he wiped the small wells of blood on the underside of his apron.

He watched him prepare dinner, catching a slightly longing glance at the kitchen knife.

But when he watched Aya on a mission, there was nothing. He was empty.

Yohji couldn't figure out when it happened. Aya showed up for work in the mornings, went to mission briefings in the afternoons, and was often sitting awake when Yohji wandered in at night.

But it was happening. A halfhearted scenario of it being a one-time ordeal was shot to hell when he went back to the drawer, hoping without knowing he did, that the things would be gone. They weren't.

The blood was fresh.

As he looked at the drawer, he felt it on his own hands. He had allowed it.

There was enough blood on his hands already. Would he wait, continue to play games, until he came in here to find Aya dead, stupid picture clasped in his hand? Would that be the endgame? Check, and mate, death wins one more time.

It was like playing chicken with the reaper.

Winner takes Aya.

Yohji didn't really want him, but he didn't want bastard death to have him either.

So he took up the game and moved something.

It wasn't from the drawer. He picked up Aya's book, laying open on the nightstand, and closed it. Carefully, he moved it to the center of the bed.

He left.

Twenty minutes later, Yohji found himself slammed hard up against the wall, Aya's tight fist in possession of his collar and the glaring face much too close to his own. Aya didn't have a weapon, but Yohji was under no delusion that he still might not be killed.

"Hi, Aya."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Me? Going to my room if you don't mind." He kept his tone light, looking over his dark glasses at the man who was slowly reducing the flow of air as his closed fist pressed against Yohji's windpipe. It was starting to hurt.

"What do you need, Kudou?" The voice was ice cold. "I thought it was enough to scare you away."

"No," he gasped out as the fist continued to push. He felt Aya's body pressed flush against his own; the man was smaller than he was, but it was all muscle honed by drastic demands to withstand inhuman situations. Yohji wasn't sure he could get away.

The game was getting dangerous. He loved it.

There was a rush of exhilaration as Aya shook him, slamming him once more against the wall. His head hurt.

"It should be."

The look was frozen anger; Aya clenched his teeth, pressing even harder. Yohji's vision started to darken around the edges.

"Stay the fuck away from me."

He was swung sideways, dropped to the hall carpet to gasp for air. His lungs burned, and his throat ached as he pulled the twisted cloth away. Yohji drug himself towards the wall, propping against it.

Aya had finally made his move.

~tbc?~

Notes: Not sure where this is going, but I thought I would follow after the plot bunnies as long as you all are interested.


	3. Chapter 3

Our Games

Chapter Three

* * *

He hovered around the edge for a day or two, watching, being ignored, plotting his next move.

It should have been something intricate and subtle, but Aya didn't really do subtle, so Yohji went for it.

He walked into Aya's room and sat down on the bed. Pulling open the nightstand drawer, he tugged out the first personal item he saw—the blue notebook with its financial notations—then settled in.

That's how Aya found him, sitting against the headboard of his bed, bare feet close together as his long legs crossed at the ankles, hands occupied with the open notebook. Yohji had heard the footsteps, forced himself to keep still as the door opened. He looked up only when it shut again.

Was Aya trying to trap him? To lessen the noise when he attacked?

The image of his own broken body slowly bleeding out on the carpet made him shiver.

Yohji offered a smile and, without looking down, turned a page.

Aya glared, but there was a tentative caution in his step as he went to the window. The afternoon sun lit bright behind him, silhouetting his thin form as he pulled his long duster off, one arm at a time, and laid it over the nearby chair. He watched Yohji the whole time, like it was a poisonous snake in his bed rather than his teammate. Or maybe he thought Yohji was crazy.

There was a lot of that going around.

Aya crossed his arms and glared harder.

The room was silent, except for the crinkle of paper as Yohji turned a page. His eyes were still on Aya.

The silence was swept away by Aya's deep voice, "What are you doing?"

He ought to have whispered.

Yohji opened his mouth to answer and found that he didn't have one, so he smiled instead.

Aya's glare was fading, having found no resistant attitude to press it against. His expression was blank as he slowly stepped towards the bed, staring down at Yohji who made ready to fight.

"Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

"Coming in here. Bothering me."

_Bothering with me_, Yohji thought he heard. There mere fact that he had yet to be slaughtered attested to Aya's wavering opinion of his presence.

"I'm a curious guy, Aya. Right now I'm curious about you."

"Don't be."

With a sigh, Yohji closed the notebook and laid it aside. "It's not that easy. I have questions."

"Get out."

"No. Not until I get some answers."

The anger was back in full force, taking only the small refusal to spark it. Yohji watched Aya's eyes flick towards the chest of drawers, to the katana resting on top. He tensed, ready to spring in the man went for it. But the violet eyes came back to him, narrowed and sharp.

"Out."

He sat up straighter on the bed.

"No."

It happened suddenly, too quick for even his perception to follow. Aya had him by the throat again. The younger man stood by the bed, leaned over with one hand braced on the mattress to Yohji's right, the other once again fisted in the collar of his shirt as he was bent back towards the bed. He could breathe easy enough, but the side of his head hurt, and Yohji could only theorize that it had been forced into the headboard.

Aya's face was close to his own, almost intimate in its proximity, and Yohji wasn't sure if it was really the danger that had him half-hard.

"What's with the choking, Ayan? You got a fetish or something?"

"Shut up."

"I've got some cuffs if you want to tie me down; that way you can have both hands free."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He was shaken, hard.

"Well, you've got me in your bed, I thought you might want to, you know." His suggestive leer was cut short as Aya shoved him away with a growl. The stiff mattress bounced under him, and Yohji was left laying on it at an odd angle. He turned his head to watch an agitated Aya stalk back to the window, turn, and come back to glare down at him.

He wasn't sure how the conversation had gone down that road so quickly when he had come into the room with no such intentions.

"Slut," Aya pronounced.

Now that wasn't going to work.

"You know it, baby."

Aya's voice, angry and demanding to, picked up an almost whining note as the redhead dropped his crossed arms to his side and asked, "What do you want from me?"

So Aya had read it all as teasing. Good. Yohji thought that's what it was, would at least go with that as it made more sense.

Sitting up, again, he replied calmly, "Answers."

He had seen more of Aya's emotions in the past ten minutes than he had in the six months he had been with Weiss, and now the man seemed to recognizing this. He turned away, pulling hard, once, on one of his eartails, and when he turned back, it was with the cool, blank expression he wore so often.

"Out."

"Nope. Try again," he smiled, then patted the bed, "Come sit with me."

"No."

"The more you do this, the longer it takes to get me out of here."

"Are you drunk?"

"Would it help if I was?"

Aya continued to stand and glare.

"So you're not going to talk to me?"

"I have no intentions of doing so."

"Fine. Then I'll just find the answers on my own."

Standing, Yohji carefully put away the notebook, leaving the nightstand drawer open.

"They're all here, Aya. All I have to do is dig."

The threats were getting him nowhere, so Yohji made good on them.

"What do you do for fun, Ayan?"

Silence.

Wearing a grin edged with determined cruelty, he began to sort through things he had seen before.

He pulled out the other notebook from the drawer, running a hand down its black cover before pulling the pen from its clipped place over the first page.

Aya's eyes widened a little when he opened it, but the man said nothing.

He spent a minute flipping pages, half-reading the kanji, the style reminiscent of the financial notations, but not nearly as neat. Poetry. He had expected a planner, a journal at best.

Looking to Aya, he got only ice.

"I'm taking this," he lifted the book, bracing his legs for the attack and resolving to use the book to protect his throat. Nothing happened. He moved towards the door, turning to blow Aya a kiss. "See you tomorrow, beautiful."

The door was locked behind him.

~tbc~

*plot bunny hops by, wearing a waistcoat and carrying a pocket watch*

Shall we follow?


	4. Chapter 4

Our Games

Chapter Four

* * *

Laying on his own bed, Yohji smoked as he flipped through his latest acquisition. It wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, alternating between traditional verse and freer forms, dark, but not as 'teenage angst' as he expected. Aya wasn't the next Shakespeare, but he was fairly good.

But Yohji didn't really care what was in the book. The point was that he had it.

He had trapped Aya. The redhead would either have to come after him, leading to a confrontation and, gasp, actual conversation, or he would have to let Yohji keep it, thereby setting a precedent and leaving the older man thoroughly in charge of the situation.

Yes, he was winning.

Because Aya would not talk willingly.

* * *

Aya was ignoring him. Though they had shared a six hour shift in the shop, the redhead hadn't uttered a single word in his direction. Funny thing was, it wasn't that different.

Yohji gave him half an hour's reprieve. Then, after going to his own room to retrieve his latest trophy, he went to see Aya.

The door was locked, and he knocked once before pulling a length of thick wire from his back pocket. In a house of assassins, locks were a formality, and in less than a minute he had let himself into the dim room. It was already getting dark outside, and the redhead hadn't bothered with the light before going to lay down on his bed. Perhaps ignoring Yohji had tired him out.

He sat there, now, glaring at the intruder.

Yohji smiled and came close; Aya didn't flinch back when he leaned in further to turn on the bedside lamp.

"Here," he held out the black notebook. Aya didn't reach to take it, so he opened the nightstand drawer and replaced it before taking a seat. With Aya in the middle of a bed, there were still six inches between them with Yohji sitting on the edge as he turned to talk.

"So you write poetry?"

A glare in response. Surprise.

"What else do you do, Aya?"

"Get out."

He smiled sweetly, "Answer my question."

"Out."

"Have any friends?"

Still glaring.

"Ma, Aya," he stretched, laced his hands behind his head, and flopped backwards in a well-aimed sprawl that put his head and shoulders across Aya's outstretched legs. "Let's be friends."

"Get off!" Not waiting for him to comply, Aya shoved him, hard, while extracting his knees, crossing his legs, and edging himself up against the headboard. He watched Yohji warily.

The blonde rolled over, propping his head up on his hand and just looking at the other for a few uncomfortable minutes.

"You're always so rough," he finally said. "You should try being…gentle."

The last word was accompanied by the light brush of his free hand across Aya's jean-clan calf, an action that got his hand slapped like he was a kid trying to steal cookies from the forbidden jar.

"Fine. We'll do it the hard way."

* * *

He came back to his own room with Aya's cell phone and a bruised shoulder. Aya had kicked him off the bed, literally.

He rubbed at it absently as he sat down. He needed a cigarette. Playing with Aya stressed him out, and when the redhead failed to play along there was none of the racing high of physical contact. Not that Yohji wanted to get his ass kicked, but he wasn't going to last very long if all he got were bruises and no excitement.

At least he had the phone.

Lighting up, Yohji held the cigarette between his teeth, pushed his glasses up on his head, and began to push buttons.

The background of the phone was boring black. Despite its high-tech ability to record videos, there were none stored, and only two pictures. Opening these, Yohji found one to be of an orchid in the greenhouse and the other of a small, calico kitten. He had no idea of how to decipher either of these. Aya had probably grown the flower. As for the kitten, he was beaten there. It looked rather tiny, and it was sitting on something cream-colored…ah, that was Aya's bedspread. So it had been in his room. Why? And where was it now?

Knocking the ashes off his smoke and putting it back in his mouth, Yohji moved on to the phone numbers. Many were expected, the Weiss numbers, three team members, Manx, and the emergency number that might as well have been Manx. There was a listing labeled just Yuushi, but the area code revealed it to be another Kritiker line. Only three other numbers were there. One was the cheap restaurant down the street that had the sashimi Aya liked; another was Momoe-san. And the last was "Magic Bus." The area code was local; it had to be the hospital where the mysterious real-Aya was laying comatose.

Setting his cigarette in the ashtray, Yohji embraced his inner detective and pressed call.

"Hello?"

"Magic Bus Hospital, floor seven, Mitsuhara Hanako speaking. Who may I ask is calling?"

The specific floor number startled him, but Yohji instantly identified it as a Kritiker protocol and did the only thing he could think of.

"Fujimiya-san calling, I—"

"Ah, Fujimiya-san!" The voice was instantly warm with recognition. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you; you sound different. You're not ill are you?"

"No," he said, keeping his voice low and his answer brief, playing Aya.

"That's good to hear! Did you need a status report on Aya-san?"

He stood suddenly in his excitement, leaping at the chance to find out more about Aya's namesake, the girl in the picture that occupied the drawer.

"Yes," he nodded, forgetting she couldn't see it.

"One moment please."

Hold muzak filtered through the line; Yohji paced, snagging his cigarette on his second pass of the nightstand but barely managing to take a drag before the woman was back on the line.

"Alright, Ran-san, I have the report. Can I get your code, please?"

Shit. Shitshitshit. Aya's code. It was one of those long numbers that Yohji should have memorized. He took a long breath and prayed he hadn't drank his brain into stupidity. Fujimiya, code name Abyssinian, code flower rose, code number…

"8-1042-672-5517- 24-92, Abyssinian."

"Thank you. I'm sorry that I don't have better news, Ran-san. Her condition's still deteriorating. She's still breathing on her own, but Kiga-sensei believes she may have to go on the ventilator within the week. He wants to speak with you as soon as possible."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Please take care, Ran-san."

The request seemed genuine and Yohji sat with the dead line for a few minutes trying to process the information. Old habits washed over him, picking out the facts he had gleaned from the conversation. Real-Aya was at Magic Bus. Aya knew the phone-answering nurse on a somewhat friendly level (a part of Yohji wanted to know if he had slept with her, but it didn't seem remotely plausible). Aya called often, apparently to get status reports on his sister. She was getting worse.

His cigarette crackled as the flame caught the filter, and he hurried to put it out. Snapping the phone closed, he placed it on the nightstand.

Yohji wanted strong black coffee and cheap chocolate doughnuts. Those had been his food of choice on many late nights, resting on his desk in the cluttered little office, half-hidden under piles of paper that Asuka would eventually organize. He wanted her too. It didn't feel desperate like it had for so long; he didn't want to curl up and cry, but there was a keen sense of incompleteness. Aya was a mystery, and when Yohji went after a mystery, he wanted his coffee, his doughnuts, and his partner.

Trying to shove away old memories of overflowing ash trays and gentle hands that brushed back his tangled hair while their owner told him he really should brush his teeth, Yohji leaned over to rummaged under the bed without looking. The bottle he unearthed was long and slender and only a third full of clear liquid.

It would do.

~tbc~

The plot bunny leads us further along…to where, I have no idea…but review and we'll follow.


	5. Chapter 5

Our Games

Chapter Five

* * *

This chapter probably needs a language warning...consider yourself warned.

* * *

Yohji was hungover, and it didn't put him the best of moods. It didn't help that the entire world seemed out to get him. As soon as he got out of bed, he tripped over the pants he had shed there the night before, tangling his foot and banging his knee against the nightstand. He spared it a quick word, then hurried into the hall, only to run into a rather frustrated Ken who seemed intent on chastising him for being naked. Only Yohji's desperate need to take a piss saved the soccer player from immediate harm. Finding his headache worse for the encounter, Yohji took care of necessary business and moved on to a shower only to find there was no hot water left.

He got out cold and with his expensive shampoo still clinging to his wet hair. Only then did he realize that he had forgotten to bring a towel.

"Oh for fuck's sake!"

He stood, dripping on the pathetic excuse for a bathmat, glaring at the back of the toilet where, had the universe not declared war on Kudou, his towel ought to have been. Resisting the urge to shiver as he felt goosebumps break out over his bare skin, he turned and scanned the small room for possible alternatives. There was, of course, the green bathmat that was immediately dismissed, followed closely by the almost sopping towel Ken (henceforth known as the user of the hot water) had abandoned in the corner in a heap. That left the option of getting to his room or using Aya's towel.

He fingered the white terrycloth that was folded neatly across the towel rack. Aya always got to the shower first at some insanely early time that made Yohji wince to think about, so his towel was just a little damp. To use it, though, was a sure way to bring down the wrath of Aya.

Well, that seemed like a good idea. Snagging the towel from the rack, Yohji threw it over his head and scrubbed at his wet hair, inadvertently realizing that the towel smelled like Aya; it was some kind of flower and must be from his shampoo if it smelled so strongly on the towel. About to investigate the bottle itself, Yohji was interrupted by Ken's banging on the door.

"I'm leaving! Aya's gonna kick your ass if you're not in the shop in five minutes!"

Somehow that failed to motivate him.

* * *

He had been too easy on him.

This is what Yohji realized as he watched Aya stalk around the shop.

True enough, the man had been calm and reserved when the blonde had entered; he had been working quietly on his arrangements and stiffened only slightly when Yohji swept in to the deserted shop.

It took two minutes for Yohji to realize he was being ignored.

It was not the morning to ignore him.

Four minutes later, Aya was pacing the shop like a caged tiger, glaring at anything that happened to be at hand. Currently it was the unsuspecting windows that were under inspection, though Yohji couldn't help but think they didn't so much need washing as Aya needed a reason not to look at him.

He wondered if that was to keep from strangling him. How nice.

Somewhere between watching Aya get out the step ladder and getting down his third cup of strong coffee, Yohji decided that work had been too much of a reprieve for the redhead.

When Aya left the room to get a rag, Yohji moved the step ladder to the opposite window. Aya returned, glared at him, and slammed the ladder noisily back into place. Stepping onto the top, he began to scrub at the window with considerably more force than required.

"Why do you wear that?" Yohji questioned a few minutes later. When he got no answer, he left the slight security of the register and came to stand beside the swordsman, leaning, conveniently, against a cleaned section of glass. "The sweater. Why do you wear it?"

"Don't talk to me."

Yohji snorted and dropped his head to look at Aya over the rim of his shades, "It's hideous. Redheads shouldn't wear orange. Red, maybe, if it matched, or black, or purple. Is that your natural eye color?"

"I said don't talk to me."

"Do you color your hair? I don't think you do, but I'm not sure about the contacts. Would Kritiker let someone wear—"

"Don't talk about that here!" Aya hissed, tossing his rag down into the bucket and splashing water on Yohji's pantleg.

"Shit," he complained, pulling at the damp cloth, "Did you have to do that?"

Aya shot him one more harsh glare as he stepped off the ladder and picked it up, "Apparently."

* * *

They had spent the rest of the morning in chilly silence, broken only by overly polite words exchanged for the benefit of a few elderly customers. Yohji stewed the entire time, frustrated with anything and everything and especially Aya. Why couldn't the idiot just open up to him?

When Ken returned for the afternoon shift, Aya escaped to the greenhouse; the object of his aggravation gone, Yohji found himself moving from frustration to determination. He would crack Aya. Hell, it wasn't like the guy was well put together in the first place. And he was reacting, the lingering dampness of Yohji's pantleg proved that. So he plotted, as strategically as possible, but it was difficult. He couldn't quite predict what Aya would do; he might get a glare or he might get strangled. He would just have to risk it.

"Here," Yohji stated, holding up Aya's cell phone as he entered the room. He hadn't bothered to knock.

Sitting on his bed with a book in his hands, Aya looked up. Yohji came over and held out the phone, but Aya refused to reach for it, clearly thinking Yohji would pull it back at the last second. With a roll of his eyes, Yohji tossed it on the bed. He stood there, looking at Aya, tense, defensive, ready to strike out.

"I called some of the numbers."

Aya did nothing.

"I found out about your sister."

Purple eyes narrowed and Aya's free hand twisted in the covers. He sat the book aside, and Yohji prepared to defend himself if necessary.

"It doesn't sound good. How long has she been getting worse?"

"None of your damn business. None of this is any of your fucking business! Get out!"

Aya was on his feet, in Yohji's face as he yelled at him. Ready for it, Yohji met his anger with calm, holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture but not giving any ground.

"Talk to me Aya, or talk to somebody. You gotta get rid of some of this shit or it'll drive you crazy."

"I'm fine, now get the fuck out of my room."

"Fine? You're fine?" Calm suddenly gone in the face of Aya's denial, Yohji used his upraised hands to shove at the smaller man's chest, the unexpected action sending him sprawling across the bed. The blonde leaned over him, unconsciously reversing their earlier positions. "You're not fucking fine, Aya!"

~tbc~

*sets out a plate of plot bunny food and hides behind a bush*


	6. Chapter 6

Warnings: I've been getting a little lax with these since I think people know what to expect, but this one probably needs a language, blood, and talk of suicide warning.

* * *

Our Games

Chapter Six

* * *

There was no answer to his accusation, but the cold disbelief was clear even through Aya's surprise.

"Look at this!" Yohji demanded, yanking open the nightstand drawer and pulling out the prescription meds. First, the sleeping pills. "How often do you take these? Once a week, twice? Every night? Do you need these to sleep, Aya?"

There was no answer, so he tossed them to the bed. Next came the two psych meds, and he dropped first one and then the other to the bed in front of Aya.

"What about those? You don't take those. Why not? That's not fine. You're not exactly fucking leveled out without these. And this, what the hell is this?"

He grabbed the loaded gun from the dresser.

"Why's it loaded, Aya? Why's the safety off?" Pointing it experimentally at his own head, he watched for reaction; there was a slight tensing, but Aya didn't move. Yohji put the safety on and put the gun back, moving on to stand by the chest of drawers.

He expected Aya to freak, to jump up, run to stop him, maybe to hit him. He didn't expect the guy to just lay there, propped up on his elbows, watching, angry but unmoving.

Yohji knelt down and opened the drawer.

"Whose is this?" he questioned, holding up the maroon sweater. "It's not yours. Is it even important? I don't think so, not anymore. It's just a cover, right? Just like that fucking orange one you wear."

Throwing the sweater aside, he picked up the tangled, messy sheet and drew it out of the drawer. He held it up, put it aside. A certain chilled anger had started to settle over him, and it was with ruthless tenacity that he took each thing from the drawer.

"Did you grow this?" he asked, showing Aya the pressed orchid. "Aya, did you grow it?"

"No," he answered, quiet. Yohji was surprised, and he waited. "It was from the funeral."

"Whose?" he answered with equal quiet.

"No one, drop it!"

Oh, well, so much for that, "Tell me."

"Fuck you," was the reply, but it sounded tired and stressed; Aya didn't like him touching this.

"Tell me."

"My parents', okay! What does it matter, put it down, just put it down!"

"All right," he answered, setting it gently on the top of the sheet. He thought it best to bypass the picture; they'd already gone there, and Aya wasn't giving up any answers. So he took the plunge and picked up the shot glass.

"Drink a lot?"

But Aya had gone silent again, just glaring.

"I drink. I get that, Aya. It's this," he reached in again and took out the syringe, "it's this that'll get you. I've been there, and it's not a solution. You know?"

"I didn't ask for a lecture."

"You fucking need one."

Yohji looked in the drawer; he didn't want to touch what was still in there, didn't want to feel the dried blood. Swallowing hard, he picked up one of the razor blades and held it up clasped carefully in the fingers of his right hand.

"I hate this," he said honestly, shaking his head, "I hate that you do this."

From the bed, Aya sat up to stare at him. He couldn't read the expression, and that made it worse.

"Where do you cut? Your arm? Your leg? Why? This…this doesn't fix it, does it? This is bullshit." He dropped the blade listlessly into the drawer, staring down at it. Had anything made an impression, or was Aya going to pick it right back up again?

No, he decided, they were going to have this out one way or another.

The thing with the flower had been a small breakthrough, and Yohji was going to keep digging until it happened again, even if he had to tear the place apart, he was going to drag Aya out, secret by secret. Standing, he left the drawer open, its contents piled on the floor for Aya to see. Turning to the closet, he slid open the door, and suddenly Aya was on his feet. He didn't move from beside the bed, but he reached out a hand in some futile gesture.

"Leave it alone," he stated

"What?"

"Leave it alone."

"What's in there?" He had thought the drawer was the worst, but obviously not. Disregarding the painful whine Aya made when he did it, Yohji slid open the closet door. He didn't know where to start, so he watched Aya. There was no reaction as he fingered the clothes, no movement when he shifted the lid of the smaller box, no acknowledgement as he lifted out the collar; he moved through the uncomfortable silence, watching and listening. Then, in accident almost, his hand fell to the lid of the large wooden box; Aya stepped forward, halted, stepped back as if to cancel the action. But Yohji had seen.

But he had been in that box. It was just clothes. No, wait, he had only opened it. Yohji was figuring out that looking didn't work with Aya; you had to dig.

Taking firm hold of the box, he drug in out into the middle of the floor.

"What's this?"

"Nothing," Aya answered, the anger was gone; it was a quiet, pleading kind of voice that didn't belong to their leader. "Leave it alone."

Yohji shoved off the lid to reveal the expensive, white fabric of a haori. He wiped his hands on his jeans before touching it and heard Aya groan as he pulled it out. But there was nothing to it, and he laid it aside. Beneath were a pair of hakama; these he put aside and found a heavy, white kimono. Beneath that was another sheet.

He was beginning to hate white sheets.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled it away.

It didn't register at first, not like the things in the drawer. He had expected something horrible, bloody towels, a stash of drugs, but there was nothing so dramatic. In one corner was a box, small and black lacquer. Beneath it was a stack of rice paper, and beside that thin strip of white cloth. There was a sword; it was short and clean, probably old, with its wooden handle engraved in kanji Yohji couldn't read.

He thought it looked like something out of a samurai movie.

Then it hit him, a sudden, sick realization. He turned on Aya, staring, wide-eyed and truly terrified.

Aya stared back, frozen.

"Don't," the swordsman finally whispered, "don't touch it."

Yohji shook his head, "Why do you have this?"

"Don't touch it," Aya repeated.

"The fuck I won't. I'm taking this, all this shit, I'm not gonna sit here—"

"No!" Aya yelled, and with a sudden movement he had thrown himself down by the box, leaning over it protectively as he tried to gather the clothes back into its confines.

"Get away from it!" Yohji demanded, trying to shove him off it.

"No! Go away! Leave me alone!"

"Fuck no! Get off it!" He shoved, hard, and Aya fell back. He scrambled to get back to the box, but Yohji had it shut and behind his back. Aya lunged for it, and Yohji caught him, shoving him down again and landing half on top of him. The redhead got one hand free and grabbed Yohji's hair; flipping them over, he banged the taller man's head against the floor hard enough to make him see stars.

Aya was trying to get up, but Yohji took the most direct route he could think of and punched him, hard, in the stomach. It didn't slow him down, but it did bring his focus back to Yohji. Laying flat on his back didn't give him much chance to move, and before he knew it, Aya was straddling his hips and the swordsman's rough hands were once more at his throat, his own longer fingers trying to pry the others off his neck as he struggled to breathe.

There wasn't much dignity in it, but he was choking, damnit; he kneed Aya in the groin. The other gasped, and Yohji used the moment to change their positions, using his weight to hold Aya down while the younger man struggled, but Yohji had his arms, now, and if the wire was good for anything, it was upper body strength, and, at that moment, all he could think about was keeping Aya away from that damn box.

"Stop it!" he demanded when Aya tried to roll to his side The little shit was hard to hold, but Yohji was determined. "Calm down!"

"Get off me!"

"Not until you stop!"

"Fuck you!"

That was it. He was helping one way or another. It was risky, but he couldn't afford to sit on Aya all night; he would get away eventually. So, taking both his wrists into one hand, Yohji used the other to free his wire. Carefully, he wrapped it around the thin wrists, trying not to look at the poignant look of betrayal on Aya's face.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, but don't pull on this or you'll hurt yourself."

Was it ironic or stupid that he was telling Aya not to hurt himself? Would the idiot take advantage of the wire to slit his own wrists? Yohji decided not to leave it for long, because he wasn't sure.

Still straddling Aya's thighs to prevent an escape, he pulled the redhead into a sitting position, keeping careful hold of his collar.

Then everything went to hell, again.

There was pain, and it took Yohji a second to realize Aya had head butted him like a fucking goat.

"Shit!" he cried, hand going to his nose to stem the bleeding. Then he found himself flat on his back and devoid of his prey. Aya slipped out from under him and made for the box. Yohji didn't think either of them had an idea of what they were going to do with it; this had degraded into some kind of morbid king of the hill game.

His face ached as he rolled over to watch Aya kneel by the box and struggle with his wired wrists.

"Don't," Yohji warned, even as he saw blood start to run down the other's arms. There was some satisfaction, he admitted, that he had scored an attack, but even the feeling made him sick. This is what he didn't want. "Stop it!" he demanded again as Aya fought the wire with more aggravation than skill.

Pushing himself off the floor, Yohji took a swipe at his nose, smearing the blood over his face and staring disgustedly at his own hand before going back to Aya.

"You stupid fucker," he accused. Aya looked up at him, glaring hard, obstinate as he tugged again at the wire, making it bite deeper into his flesh. Taking a deep breath, Yohji stepped close; without warning, he kicked Aya in the stomach. The man doubled over, coughing, and Yohji had him. Kneeling behind him, Yohji had the wired out in an instant, looping it around Aya's thin shoulders, trapping his arms to his sides with the steel coils. It wasn't easy; Aya struggled and coughed and swore at him, as desperate as a wild animal.

Assured he was caught, Yohji gathered everything back into the box, careful to keep the clothes clean. Securing the lid, he stood and lifted it into his arms.

"Don't," Aya said, looking up at him from his place sitting on the floor. He was struggling again, the wire biting into his arms, starting to draw blood even through the sleeves of his sweater.

"Sit still. I'll be right back," Yohji told him. Just as he turned, Aya yelled at him.

"Don't take it!" he commanded. Yohji didn't turn back, and the next call wasn't so demanding, "Please, Yohji, don't take it."

~tbc?~


End file.
